


now I just keep you warm

by ladililn



Series: long story short [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: It’s hard to believe this is the same place Zuko rammed with his ship, crumbling Sokka’s painstakingly constructed watchtower into a pile of snow.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: long story short [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157738
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	now I just keep you warm

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a somewhat elastic 'verse that exists entirely within my mind, my own headcanon/fanon (headfanon?) of the Gaang's post-A:TLA lives. Not comics- or _Legend of Korra_ -compliant, though might occasionally borrow from those sources—actually, not 100% canon-compliant either, in a few little ways.
> 
> I might add more fics to this 'verse later on, I might write up a kind of summary of the larger context, I might petition Dark Horse to let me write a _What If?_ -style spinoff, who knows. This one, at least, doesn't require any particular context.
> 
> Title from [long story short](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqQHa2HcGtM), a great song about Zuko's canon character arc and an even _greater_ song about post-canon Zukka. Boy, that Taylor Swift pulls from diverse sources of inspiration, huh?

There’s a bite in the air. He’s at the North Pole. Dripping wet, still bruised from the explosion—

No, it’s not _that_ cold. The cooler at Boiling Rock. The guards think he’s freezing solid, but he’s mastered breath control—

It’s not even that cold. The air is bracing, but Zuko is perfectly warm. He’s just not used to being in this type of climate when he’s not trying to set everything on fire.

He’s fully awake now, aware of when and where he is and who he’s with. Or who he’s supposed to be with. Sokka’s pile of furs is still warm, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Now that he’s not hallucinating about past high-stress situations, he likes the contrast of cold air and warm skin; he doesn’t bother getting dressed before stepping outside the igloo, just lights a small fire in his hand to light the way. He finds Sokka on the ridge, knees pulled up to his chest. Zuko sits down wordlessly. There’s a tinge of light on the horizon, just enough to reveal the grey shape of the settlement below.

Town, he realizes. It’s a town now. The first time he saw it, the word “village” had been generous. At the rate it’s expanding, it’ll be a full-fledged city by their next visit.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a South Pole sunrise,” Sokka says by way of greeting, leaning in. Zuko wraps an arm around him, taking up his usual job of being Sokka’s personal portable heater. “I would’ve made you come, but I know better than to disturb a firebender before sunup.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Sleep adds extra rasp to Zuko’s voice. “It was one time. And I said I was sorry.”

“It’s not me you need to apologize to, it’s my—”

“I am not apologizing to your umbrella.”

Sokka makes an annoyed _hmph_ , snuggling in closer to Zuko’s side. “I’d _just_ bought it. It matched my bag.”

“It still does. It’s just a little…singed. Artistically.”

Sokka snorts. “If I’d wanted it artistically singed, I would’ve waited for one of your uncle’s sneezing fits. Last time he had a cold I managed to roast six marshmallows before he noticed.”

“I still don’t get why you had s’more ingredients on hand.”

“Always be prepared, that’s my motto. Along with don’t leave an ostrich-horse tied up in the rain. And always match your shoes to your belt. And your umbrella to your bag.”

“It’s artistically asymmetrical.” Zuko can’t think where he got that phrase from until Sokka turns to look at him, eyes wide with comic horror.

“Did you—”

“Shut up,” Zuko mutters. _Artistically asymmetrical_ had been the court painter’s attempt at tact upon seeing Zuko’s face.

The sky is a light pink now, gilding the curve of the ridge. Fishing boats bob on the water. Cries of hawk-gulls break the still morning air. Zuko sneaks a look at Sokka’s face and feels something clench in his chest. He’s wearing a dreamy expression not seen since the North Chung-Ling Smoked Meats Festival.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Sokka’s answer is immediate. Then he sighs. “And no. It’s weird. After we left with Aang, all I did was think about how much I missed home, how I couldn’t wait to come back once it was all over… But what was I missing, exactly? Dad and the men had been gone for years. Mom was dead. I was a kid responsible for defending a village. My little sister never listened to me.” Sokka’s mouth twists, wry. “When you think of it like that, it’s a weird time to be nostalgic for.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, “I know what you mean.” He does, though the details differed—constant war, a vanished mother, a violent father, a vicious sister. That was the life he nearly killed himself half a dozen times to get back. Even now, after everything, he sometimes catches himself thinking wistfully of summers on Ember Island.

“The other day I almost referred to our journey to the North Pole as the ‘good old days.’ Y’know, when you were hunting us—the good ol’ days!”

That Zuko can’t relate to. Even with the tendency of hindsight to sand down the rough edges of the past, even knowing where the long journey through exile ended—who stayed by his side, who it led him to, who he became because of it—he never thinks back on that time with anything like fondness.

The glow of the coming sunrise is peeling back the veil of night, sparkling off the igloos below. It’s hard to believe this is the same place Zuko rammed with his ship, crumbling Sokka’s painstakingly constructed watchtower into a pile of snow. “What your dad and Katara have done here, it’s—amazing. Unbelievable.”

“Yeah. She’s gonna make a great chief.” Sokka’s smile is wholehearted and sincere, no trace of sorrow or envy in his expression. The tightness in Zuko’s chest lessens slightly.

It was one thing when they were living in Ba Sing Se, both strangers in a strange land. But since they moved, Zuko’s felt creeping guilt about having returned home while Sokka is still so far from his. It was Sokka’s own decision to yield his claim to the chiefdom, of course, and he did so for his own reasons, not for Zuko. But in his darkest moments of fear Zuko worries that Sokka will come to regret it, and that that regret will curdle into resentment. After all, their relationship started with Zuko literally destroying Sokka’s home. What if Sokka comes to the conclusion he’s wreaking as much destruction with distance as he did with warships?

Zuko’s brooding is interrupted by the realization that Sokka is still talking. (In his defense, that used to happen way more often, except that Sokka was Iroh, and Zuko would usually just go back to brooding.)

“…there was some Earth Kingdom merchant selling _cabbages_ , but no fire flakes? What am I supposed to snack on when browsing goods and wares? I’m just saying, Dad and Katara need to focus more on trade agreements.”

“I’m not sure they consider flaming fire flakes importation high-priority.”

“We have stuff we could export, too! Imagine being able to get a delicious bowl of stewed sea prunes back home.” The dreamy look returns to Sokka’s face.

_Back home_. Warmth unfurls in Zuko’s chest, chasing out the last of the tightness and for once having nothing to do with his bending.

“Maybe I can ask your Gran Gran for the recipe.” It took him longer than he likes to admit—nearly as long as it took to regain his honor—for his cooking skills to increase from subsistence-level to competent, but he got there. By the time they left Ba Sing Se, his deep-fried pickled radishes and hibiscus-root salad were famous among a select group of people, only _most_ of whom were his friends.

“Seriously, you’d do that? I thought you didn’t like sea prunes.”

“I never said that.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Aang’s never said it either, but given a choice between stewed sea prunes and arctic hippo dung, I’m pretty sure he’d go for the dung.”

Zuko might’ve made the same choice if someone had asked him a few days ago. His familiarity with ocean kumquats, which Katara swore were the closest things to sea prunes this side of the South Pole, gave him low expectations of their welcome dinner. But he actually found the prunes much more appetizing than the kumquats. Which wasn’t to say he _liked_ them, exactly, but…

“It’s…an acquired taste,” he says. “I’m acquiring it.”

“Wow,” Sokka says, grinning widely. “You must really like me.”

“No I don’t,” Zuko says automatically.

“Aww.” Sokka’s act of wounded pride would have been more convincing if he weren’t still grinning. He turns Zuko’s face toward his. “Not even a little?”

“No,” Zuko mutters, gaze not falling to Sokka’s lips.

“Not even a teeny-weeny-tiny smidgen?” Sokka brushes his nose against Zuko’s.

“No,” he mumbles, not letting his eyes flutter shut as Sokka’s thumb rubs his jaw.

“Not even a…”

“N…” Sokka’s lips muffle whatever Zuko was trying to say. He fists one hand in Sokka’s shirt, deepening the kiss, and clenches a fistful of snow in the other.

“ _YEEEEEOW!!!_ ” Sokka flings himself away, scrabbling at the front of his shirt. He does a remarkably accurate imitation of Aang demonstrating one of those dances he insists were all the rage in the Fire Nation a century back, which Zuko would point out if he weren’t too busy laughing.

“Think you’re hot stuff, do you?” Sokka says, after he’s dislodged the biggest chunks of snow and given up on the rest. A sly look crosses his face, one that makes Zuko reflexively look over his shoulder for an incoming boomerang. “I’ll show you,” he growls.

Before Zuko can brace himself for whatever vengeance Sokka intends to inflect, it’s on him—or rather, Sokka is. If he had command of his mouth, he might ask how this is supposed to “show” him anything but a good time. But if life has taught him anything, it’s how to nobly bear punishment.

It’s possible, he thinks dizzily, as Sokka trails searing kisses down his neck, that he’s being punished for a much earlier transgression. Sokka’s knee pressing between his legs, Sokka’s fingers tangling roughly in his hair, Sokka’s tongue plundering his mouth—Zuko feels like Sokka’s watchtower, crumbling into the sea. He feels like a furnace. He feels—

He chases Sokka’s lips when he pulls back, making an unconscious noise of protest. Sokka kisses him once more, hard, then sits back on his heels.

“You’re sure you don’t like me?”

Zuko opens his mouth to retort, then stops. They seem to have sunk several inches below the surrounding snowpack. There’s actual _steam_ rising from the snow around them. Given another thirty seconds, Zuko might’ve turned this ridge into a hot spring without even realizing.

“Shut up,” Zuko grumbles. He throws an arm over his eyes to block the blinding combination of sunlight and Sokka’s self-satisfied grin. It doesn’t do much good, so he rises onto his elbows instead.

“Guess we missed the sunrise.”

Sokka stands, brushing off his shirt—which is now, of course, perfectly dry. He holds out a hand and Zuko lets him pull him onto his feet. “Eh. We’ll survive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of begging for comments and kudos (though, y'know, by all means), I'm going to beg you all to listen to [long story short](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqQHa2HcGtM) and imagine it being sung from Zuko's POV, then come join me in having an emotional meltdown over it.


End file.
